The Ordinary and the Damned
by Umbrella-ella
Summary: A story observing their love, losses, and most importantly, their lives together, apart, and the times that lay somewhere in between. Written for the 'Joys of Arranged Marriages Challenge'. Dean/Luna


_A/N: I love this pairing so much— they're unique, yet delightfully wonderful together. I know I have about a million other things to write already, but this idea— it won't leave me alone. Thus, the birth of_ The Ordinary and the Damned_, a Dean/Luna story observing their love, losses, and most importantly, their lives together, apart, and the times that lay somewhere in between. This is a marriage law fic, but that will come later. Written for the _Joys of Arranged Marriages Challenge* _by Forever Siriusly Sirius, and submitted for Laux14's _As Strong As We Are United Competition _(prompts: _Darkness, Loss, Photograph)_._

_*Note: It's not much of a marriage law story right now, but it may start out slower and build up. I wanted to establish a voice for the characters and get some character development written out._

_Disclaimer: If I were JK Rowling, I wouldn't need to write fanfiction, would I? Alas, I have not written a best-seller series, I have not changed countless millions of lives for the better, and I am not one of the richest women in the world. I have a cat, though._

**Prologue: To Fight the Good Fight**

_April, 1998_

Dean woke to the clanging of metal. Dirt— dirt and darkness, that was what he first registered as he came to. His mouth tasted like dirt and it was so dark he thought he might be blind.

Pressing his face into the dirt ground hadn't done much for the aches and pains he had acquired from his time on the run. Groaning, Dean pushed himself up, wincing as he felt a broken rib shift slightly. The Snatchers hadn't exactly been gentle.

His eyes adjusted as he propped himself against what he assumed to be a wall— stone, by his guess.

A dungeon, perhaps?

A fat lot of good he'd done for the Order and the D.A., getting himself caught here, in this hellhole. By three bumbling idiots who couldn't spell their names if they tried, no less. Then again, you didn't need to string together four words to run fast. He tried to call out into the darkness, but his mouth was dry from the dirt.

He coughed violently, his throat itching with irritation.

"Hello?" A lilting voice drifted from the shadow, bouncing around, echoing in the small room.

For a moment, Dean was still, silent as he tried to place the speaker's voice. His brow furrowed, he stared into the dark, as if it would reveal the owner of the voice.

Again, he coughed violently, but this time, he managed to croak, "Luna? Luna Lovegood?" A hiss came, and then light illuminated the room. Blinking rapidly, Dean was startled by the sudden light, and more startled to see the young witch huddled in the corner. Luna looked paler than usual, drawn and tired; her eyes, once bright and full of light, were shadowed and her cheeks sunken. Her luminescent hair had grown unevenly and patches of dirt were smeared across her face. Her nose was bleeding. A small smile crossed her paper-thin lips and she spoke.

"Dean? Are you alright?"

Luna stood, ducking her head to avoid the low ceiling as she made her way over to him. In the flickering light, this close, she looked so sad— he frowned.

"Yeah, for the most part. Where are we? How long have you been here?" Dean swallowed, almost wishing he hadn't asked. "Malfoy Manor, in the cellar to be exact. I've been here since Christmas." She sighed, threading her fingers through her hair as she thought carefully. "They've taken Mr. Ollivander up for… questioning. They do much worse you know." Her face was hidden by the shadows that danced with the flickering lantern, but Dean could tell it hurt her to think of what they— of what _evil _actsthe Death Eaters committed on the poor man.

As if on cue, a horrible scream sliced through the momentary silence and then came a thud. Silence weighed heavy in the air, and Dean looked at his fellow captor with sympathy in his eyes.

"Are you alright, Luna?" Dean lifted a hand to comfort her, but she winced, shrugging away.

"I suppose. I don't suppose you've heard anything about Daddy, have you? The Death Eaters— he had no choice…"

She lifted her face, and for a second, he thought she might've made one hell of a Gryffindor— then her chin trembled and it was gone. "I haven't— I'm sorry. If it helps, I've no idea what's happened to my mum— or anyone, really."

Luna retraced her steps and slumped in the corner, pulling something from the pocket on her robes. She was wearing her uniform— had she been at Hogwarts?

Dean copied her motions, sitting next to her on the packed dirt. "M'sorry. I wish I knew more. It's so hard, not knowing who's alright and who's not." Dean paused, watching her trace her small fingers across the surface of the photograph she held. The woman in the photo was laughing and every five seconds she would wink at the camera. Her blonde hair was curled over her shoulder, and her blue eyes shone with an innate curiosity— "Your mum? She looks just like you."

Luna glanced at him and nodded, offered a small hum of affirmation. He smiled a bit and let his head rest on the wall. A few moments of silence permeated the air and Luna hummed a quirky tune. She tucked the photograph away carefully, taking care not to wrinkle it, and asked abruptly, "Why are you fighting in this war, Dean?"

"I think that one of the things that keeps you fighting— that keeps you sane enough— it's not knowing what you've lost until the very end. Whether you win or you lose, it doesn't matter, because you're fighting for what you still have. At least that's my theory." He chuckled dryly, even though nothing about his statement was remotely funny.

Dean watched, entranced as the flame of the single lantern guttered, nearly going out several times. He felt a weight on his shoulder and slid a look over to his shoulder. Under better circumstances, this might've been an odd thing, to have the younger Ravenclaw girl who he barely knew asleep on his arm, but for now, if it gave her some comfort to know that someone was here— that someone could have a chance of protecting her— he didn't mind. Shifting, he pulled her robes more securely around her.

The dungeon, or cellar, or basement, or whatever the hell it was supposed to be was rotten, dank, and dirty. It must be Hell, he decided, drawing his jacket tighter around himself.

Just before falling asleep, he decided that Hell, at least, would be much warmer.

_A/N: Worth continuing? Let me know!_


End file.
